Worth
by Rhanon Brodie
Summary: "I'd never sell ya like dat," Connor swore. Oneshot for reader challenge winner DeDe324. I don't do them often, but when I do, this is what happens. Prompts: rain, angry Connor. M for a reason.


_A/N: DeDe324 was co-winner for my last quote challenge in Ean Beag. The prize was a one-shot with the twin of her choice. She gave only these prompts: rain, angry Connor; and this was the result. Pure smut. Could be categorized as AU. Connor / Anywoman. Enjoy!_

* * *

"The invitation says 'black tie'."

Connor frowns and looks down at what he's wearing: black suit jacket and pants and a black collared shirt with the first two buttons undone. Beneath the collar, you can see the beads of his rosary – he wouldn't go anywhere without it (or his brother; you're rather impressed that Murphy isn't lurking in the background with a goofy grin on his face). The Irishman smoothes his hands over the front of the jacket and looks back up at you, cocky grin in place. "Well, I'm wearin' black," he shrugs. "Don't own a tie," he continues. "You scrub up nicely, don't ya?"

You sigh, a fond smile crossing your lips. Leave it to Connor MacManus to charm his way through any situation. You thank him anyway; glad he likes the cut and colour of your dress. His eyes linger perhaps a little _too_ long on the plunge of your neckline, and you feel the heat begin to crawl up your skin. He's got that look in his eye. The one that says…

"Let's you and me ditch this jam, aye? I know a cozy little restaurant wit' a private booth in tha back."

It's tempting. Everything about him, from the tips of his messy, sandy blond hair to the toes of his…your eyes narrow…_boots_ (sigh) is tempting. The quirk of his lips, the tanned skin of his throat, the way the sleeves of his jacket move up, revealing truth and beauty all in one. You snap your eyes shut and shake your head quickly. "I have to go. I'm his agent," you reiterate, and for once you wish that you didn't have the job of toting around artists. The money is good, the rewards are shit, and you get stuck going to gallery openings almost every weekend. This is the first one Connor has agreed to go to, and you wonder why _this_ show has him so interested.

Connor heaves a playful sigh and loops his arm out for you to hook it with your own. "All right. Let's be off. Go rub elbows wit' da rich and snooty."

"More like the whiney and demanding," you growl. "You clean up nicely, too," you add, because even though he's managed to work around the dress code, he's done it so that no one will notice or no one will care.

"Ah, tanks, love," he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss right in front of your ear. "Though, I should warn ya – t'is laundry day, aye?" His voice has dropped to a husky purr and you falter slightly in your heels at his next words: "Murph has all da unders in da loft down at Spuds and Suds. M'starkers, love, just keep _dat_ in mind."

He feels your shudder and presses his nose against your cheek, inhaling once. "You smell nice," he announces softly, before straightening up with a smug grin.

"Really," you murmur, suddenly so glad for your trip to _Knickers and Lace_ last week.

Connor nods and lets go of your arm to press the button for the elevator. He glances back at you, and then back to the numbered panel over the elevator doors, that smirk so far up on his face, you are determined to wipe it off.

"Hold this," you growl, snapping your tiny clutch out and nailing him in the stomach with it.

"Ow, what tha fuck, lass?" he chuckles, glancing back at you.

His laughter dies, and his smirk goes with it, because you've timed it just so when he looks to you, you're leaning down, straightening the seam on your black stockings and sliding the hem of the dress up to mid thigh where you tug the tops of those stockings snugly into place. When he swallows thickly, you smile triumphantly, drop the hem of your dress and stand back up.

"Thanks," you say, a little huskier than usual. You take your purse back and turn to watch the numbers over the elevator doors light up one by one.

* * *

The cab ride over to the gallery is short, but it doesn't make it any less sweet, as Connor leans back against one passenger door, his dark suit almost blending in with the interior, while his blue eyes rake you up and down as you reassure your client that everything will go smoothly and that he should calm the fuck down. Your eyes cut to the man next to you every now and then, but you don't linger too long because you know if you do you won't hear what your client is whining about. You'll zone out and start to think about the last time you and Connor shared a cab somewhere. A video showed up on YouTube the day after and while the faces weren't visible, the mutterings in Gaelic and French were enough proof that the cabbie had used his security camera to make the next internet sensation. You're pretty sure Connor hasn't seen it, and you're thinking maybe, if he's a good boy, you'll play it for him the next time you go down on him.

A voice barks down the line at you and you jump back to attention, mentally smacking yourself for zoning out when trying not to. "Can you repeat that?"

"I asked if you were bringing a date," your client repeats.

You frown. He's usually so self-absorbed that he wouldn't notice one way or another. "Um…yes, actually," you reply.

"Too bad," your client mutters. "My buddy is in town – good guy, owns a gym, likes to have a good time."

"That is too bad," you concur, though you don't really care. Connor may not own a gym, but he likes to have a good time, too. In fact, having a good time with Connor is sometimes like a trip to the gym, what with the acrobatics and sweating and…

"I'm gonna hang up because you're clearly not paying attention," your client laughs. "See you in a few."

You snap the phone shut and place it back in your purse. Connor is watching you closely.

"What's 'too bad'?" he asks, curious, because you didn't really sound like you thought it was just that.

"Nothing," you sigh, waving your hand. "My client wanted to set me up with a friend of his."

This makes Connor slide across the seat and cup your knee with one hand and wind his other arm across your shoulders. The fingers on your shoulder curl back into the waves of your hair (you've worn it loose because that's the way Connor likes it, but you'll never admit to him that you did it for that reason) and tug playfully. The fingers on your knees feel like white hot butterfly wings, smoothing up along the silk of your stockings until he's clutching at the inside of your thigh and any words you might have for him are dying on your lips.

"Tell yer client he needs ta back tha fuck off," Connor husks, sweeping his eyes down the front of your dress once more. "About business, and things that _aren't_ his business."

You eyelids flutter shut at his words, at the obvious claim his hand and his breath have made. Once more, the fingers that clutch your thigh are moving, higher now, past the lace tops of your stockings, snagging the garter belt, tugging, toying with the clip –

The cab lurches to a stop and your eyes snap open as you are hurled back into reality. Connor's hand has not moved and as the cabbie rounds to you and announces your arrival at your destination, the man falters just slightly as his eyes zero in on the dark space between your thighs.

"Eyes ta tha front," Connor snaps, and the words are so succinct and edged with ice that the cabbie lets out a small 'eep' of embarrassment mixed with fear, and he turns around, quoting the fare.

You exit quickly, stepping out into the humid air that comes with downtown Boston, and Connor's hand is wound tightly around yours. He cranes his head back, looking at the gallery and the other people milling about out front.

"You ready?" You turn to him and see that he is pulling out his cigarettes, tucking one in the corner of his mouth.

He produces a lighter from his pants pocket and touches the flame to the end of the cigarette. "Be right in," he murmurs around the smoke. "I've a feelin' ya can't smoke in dere," he says, nodding to the gallery. He winks and waves you off. "Go on, I can find me own way in, aye? M'a big boy," he says proudly, puffing up his chest.

You shake your head at his antics, always amazed at how he can go from possessive to regressive. "You'll need this to get in," you say, handing him the invitation. "I'll probably be close to the bar – that's usually where he is."

Connor folds the expensive card stock in half and tucks it into his jacket, but his blue eyes have narrowed just a bit at the mention of your client once more. He says nothing, but nods, and waves you off again. "See ya soon."

You turn and head up the steps, the feel of his gaze sending a hot flash up your spine. God give you strength to get through this evening because you have a feeling that those shit rewards you go on about are going to be rather lucrative tonight.

* * *

Connor has never seen you in action before, and he's pretty sure he doesn't like it. He watches from where he's taken up residence next to some painting – watches how you weave in and out of mixed company, a high, trilling laugh that is not your own bubbling out at precise moments. He watches you pause and reflect and touch the arm of your client and smile and bat your lashes at his friend, and press your red-stained lips to the edge of your champagne glass.

You hate champagne; you've told him this before, and you've never been one to lie, but he's watched you down three glasses already, and when your client hands you a fourth, he scowls and downs the last of the swill these Americans call beer. They didn't even have a decent Irish whiskey on the bar. He's hot. He's uncomfortable with the amount of fakery in the room. He sets the empty glass down next to some ridiculous sculpture called 'Naked Horseback' and begins to make an escape plan.

He's stopped by a woman in a laughable hat who breathes against his neck and tugs his arm until he's standing in front of a canvas displaying a larger than life black and white shot of a woman, from neck to nipple. "Do you like it?" the strange woman asks, her lacquered nails digging into his forearm.

He's actually thankful for the pinch; it grounds him in what is otherwise a slowly simmering situation that is going to boil over. He knows those collarbones, the lovely pair of delicate arched bones, and he knows that tiny scar over the left breast, the result of an overzealous kitten cuddle at the age of eight. He knows the shape of the nipple, knows how it hardens with his touch, knows how it feels and tastes under his tongue. He's traced that scar with his lips; he's made his own indents on the collarbone with his teeth and he's convinced he can see a shadow of them there, in black and white, and suddenly he's red all over.

"It's shite," he growls, feeling a strange mix of anger and arousal. He tugs his arm free and heads for the door, intent on smoking the feeling out of him before he does something he may – or may not – regret.

* * *

The inside of your thigh still tingles and burns from where Connor gripped you in the cab. You have to fight the urge to press your thighs together; you are certain that if you were to excuse yourself to the ladies' room and hiked up your skirt, you'd see the indents of his grip and find your panties damp. That one touch was all it took to unravel a carefully crafted façade. You're fooling everyone but him.

You watch, interested, as one of the client's many women friends pulls Connor aside, around a corner, and you wonder what they might be doing. Is she hitting on him? You wouldn't doubt it; when he entered the room for the first time, most of the women took note, and some of the men did, too. He swaggered in, sauntered to the bar, pouted when they didn't have Guinness or Bushmill's, and made a face with every swallow of pale piss-warm pilsner. They all ate him up, eyes and hands and lips and that surge of lust you felt in the cab doubled – hell, it tripled – knowing that those eyes and hands and lips were at your disposal.

He reappears from where he's gone off with that woman, and as he storms through the gallery, his eyes flash over you. You've never seen this look before, but there is something vaguely familiar about it. Two thirds lust and one third fury, shaken over ice and served hot with the twist of a nasty sneer. It's heady. It's enough to leave your client's side without an explanation, despite him calling after you. Your heels hammer across the gleaming vintage hardwood of the space and you catch Connor's sleeve just as he's slipping out into the lobby.

"What's wrong?" Your question is hushed.

His jaw is tense. You see the muscles bunch, shifting the jacket on his shoulders, and he takes the hand you've laid on his sleeve in one of his own and pries it off, finger by finger.

"Why did you invite me?"

His question makes you falter. His voice makes you cringe. You shake your head, unsure of his meaning. "Excuse me?"

He snorts and waves his hand towards the people milling about in the other room. "Did ya bring me here ta brag," he starts, "or ta make a fool outta me?"

This has you floored. "What brought this on?" you wonder out loud, because right now, in the gleaming hot pot lights of the gallery, you feel utterly naked and in the dark.

His hand slides around your wrist and, jerking his gaze left to right to make sure he doesn't make this scene any bigger, he yanks you forward, his other hand burning and sharp on your hip as he holds you tightly against his pelvis. You try to pull away, but despite his leanly muscled frame, he is strong, and your throat dries up at the anger burning in his eyes and the obvious bulge of an erection in his pants.

"You tellin' me that ya know nothin' bout that picture hangin' in dere?" His tone is incredulous, accusing, and open and close your mouth, searching for words.

There are none. You shake your head, clearly confused, and that makes Connor growl low and dangerous. He scraps his earlier plan of leaving and instead hauls you back into the gallery with a tight grip on your elbow and a blank expression. You skid to a halt as he swings you around and lands his hands heavily on your shoulders. He's taken away your escape route. You turn your head towards him, anger at his actions forming nasty words, but he moves his hand to your jaw and jerks your head forward once more as he steps in, his chest hard against your naked back.

His fingers sweep the fall of your hair aside. "Tell me that isn't you," he rasps hotly against the side of your neck. His nose brushes your pulse and his teeth gently graze the thin skin there, a tease and a threat rolled into one tiny movement.

Again, the steel of his cock sucks the air out of your lungs as he grinds it into your ass and despite your annoyance with him, if he asked you to get down on all fours right now, you'd seriously consider it. You can't move anything but your eyes and you look now to see what has made him act this way.

You want to be able to lie to him. You want to say 'that isn't me, hanging there larger than life', but it _is_ you. You modelled for your client a handful of times so he could play with shadow and light, and maybe, before Connor, there was the photographer who was shutter happy. You shiver in Connor's hold and take a deep breath. "I can't tell you that," you say with a wavering voice. It's not Connor that has upset you, nor is it his reaction to the photo. Right now, you're feeling the same way: hurt, angry, and yes, turned on, because that's you and even though your client swore those shots would be seen by the public, there you are, and the lighting is soft, the contrast sharp.

At your admission, Connor's hands tighten and his forehead lands on the back of your shoulder. A second later his heat has vanished, making you shudder, and if you thought you felt naked before, you feel exposed both inside and out without him at your back. No one else knows that's you, but you can't help but feel everyone suddenly staring at you, all a part of the secret. Your face burns.

"I need some air." Connor's voice cuts. Then he is gone and you're left standing, holding a glass of champagne.

* * *

"I want it taken down _now_," you growl at your client, having cornered him near the bar.

He's gaping, shaking his head. "Babe, no one knows that's you. Well, other than you and me."

"And my date."

He smirks. "Oh yeah. Him too." He shrugs. "It's been getting excellent response," he quips, because he no doubt knows how the man you've brought with you has reacted. He's probably put money on it.

"Don't be a shit," you snap. You know he's childish and he doesn't like it when others play with his toys, but you haven't been his for a very long time. You refuse to feel violated; it is a beautiful shot, but you do feel betrayed. "Take it the fuck down," you hiss, jabbing a finger into his charcoal suit. "And find yourself a new fucking agent."

You stalk back across the gallery, hushed, surprised murmurs following you. In the lobby, you head for the door but the man at the coat check stops her. "Your date is on the roof."

"What?" you ask wearily.

He points up. "He's on the roof. Needed some air away from the stuffiness," the doorman explained with a shrug. "Can't say I blame him."

"Right," you answer wryly. "Stairs?" You follow the pointed finger to the right and find them, and when you realise that it is a four story climb on five glasses of champagne, you slip your heels off and clutch them in your hand before attempting that first step.

* * *

He's lounging on an ancient wicker chaise with a purple velvet cushion that is threadbare and worn in places. You pause, thinking he looks decidedly wicked in the lights of the street, and a cloud of smoke plumes up around him. For a moment you watch, and he leans down to grasp a bottle from the ground before upending it in his mouth, taking a healthy swig. He's nicked a bottle of champagne and you have to laugh because he hates the shit. He turns at your giggle.

"Sometin' funny?"

The roof access door bangs shut behind you just as a gust of moist, cool wind billows around your bare legs. There is rain on the air. You pick your way forward, noting the burned remains of candles scattered around the concrete pad where the chaise sits and you smirk at the obvious bohemian mood some other shitty artists has tried to create in order to seduce. You wonder if it worked. You wonder if it might work again. You know that his anger will be redirected once you explain, so you take a deep breath.

"I didn't know about it," you begin. "We were together once, a long time ago, long before you. He took my picture but swore it would never show in a gallery."

Connor stands, and the wind swirls again, making thick clouds shift across the sky. "How much is it wort'?"

You shake your head. "What does it matter?"

"I'd never sell ya like dat," he swears, pitching aside the cigarette. He takes another swig from the bottle and holds it out to you.

"You know I hate that shit," you breathe.

"Dat why yer drunk?" he counters. "C'mere," he beckons.

So you go to him, unclear as to what his motives are. That gleam in his eye, the one that spins dangerously from anger back around to lust, is still there, but there is determination as well, and he sets the bottle down and frowns when you stop a foot away from him.

"Y'afraid o'me, lass?" he asks smoothly. "'Fraid of what I might do?"

You shake your head. "More of what you might not do."

He chuckles deeply and it makes your blood pound. You feel a cool drop on your shoulder, making you jump. It is followed by another, and then another, and soon, rain is falling softly, making dark speckles on the moon-gray concrete and purple velvet.

He closes the distance between you, sliding his palm from the swell of your breast up over your shoulder, this thumb glancing over your collarbone. Clasping the back of your neck, he angles his head over yours, his eyes searching. "M'still pissed, lass," he murmurs, his gaze landing on your lips.

Your breath hitches with his confession and he is so close to you, you are breathing each others air. You lips ache in anticipation; you need to kiss him, need to taste him, need to feel that barely restrained fury in his mouth. Your tongue flashes out, tasting the rain on your lips, and his eyes light back to yours, pupils blown.

His nostrils flare. "Ya put on quite a show," he begins, taking half a step back so those snapping blue eyes can roam your body once more. "M'not talkin' 'bout the picture. M'talkin' 'bout playin' dress up." He trails his fingers back down to where the front of your dress is cut and he tugs on the now damp silk, sliding the cap sleeves down your shoulders.

His fingertips slip across your wet skin as it's revealed, and he finds the zipper at the back of your dress. He picks his head up, the rain flattening the soft spikes as it comes down harder. "What do ya want me ta do about dat?"

It's his way of asking permission. His eyes plead, the blue of them ask 'right here, in the rain, as long as it's okay with you.' He may be half-fizzled in champagne and barely checked lustful fury, but he's not an animal when you don't want him to be.

"Fuck me," you rasp. "Slow," you declare, breathlessly. "And deep. Show me how much I'm worth."

Your dress is ruined by now with the driving rain, and the soft waves you spent two hours creating are nothing more than heavy handfuls of wet, tangled hair. His fingers snag in the mess of your dress, dragging the hem up to your ass as he holds you steady and slants his mouth over yours. The kiss is deep and it is hot, laced with oak from the champagne and cloves from his cigarette. His teeth snag your lips and tongue as his fingers press into the wet, supple flesh of that spot where ass meets thigh. He traces the edges of your panties until you are panting into his mouth.

As he tugs at the garter belts once more as he grinds his erection into your centre with a growl, "I'm gonna fuck ya while you're wearin' dese," he decides, snapping the straps sharply against your thigh so that you jolt in his embrace. His hand moves boldly to the thick heat between your thighs and your head arches back, eyes blinking against the downpour and the rough slide of his stubble against your throat.

"Been a tease all night, pretendin' ta be someone yer not," he rasps, and he tears at the zipper of your dress. Together, you tug the thing from your body and he tosses it aside, taking in the matched set of black satin and lace with pale pink ribbons. You shiver, cold and wet, hot and wet, eager and wet, and from the way his eyes are darting over you, he's not certain where he wants to start.

A second kiss comes, this one slower and wetter than the first, full of tongue and love and teeth. The wet velvet of the chaise slides against your back in a new sensation, and you arch up, clutching at his shoulders, your mouth seeking his and lighting on his neck and jaw and ears. He twists and turns, and sheds his jacket, and your fingers fumble over soaking wet cotton to pull at the buttons on his shirt. Yanking it from under his pants, you part it, slide your palms up his chest, thumbs rolling over the hard peaks of his nipples, something you know makes him pant and moan sharply.

He does not disappoint. Even as his teeth snag your ear and dig into that tender flesh, he's whimpering as your hands stroke over his chest, his ribs, his belly, and finally glide along the waist of his slacks. His skin is warm and wet, delightfully so, and his mouth matches as it wanders from your ear to your collarbones, teeth digging in once more in a sharp, tingling reminder. You are his, just as he is yours, and not even the driving rain can wash that away.

His mouth glides down, sucking the rain from your skin, and his fingers reach and tug the strapless contraption concealing your breasts until he has full reign over you. He sucks at one nipple softly at first, like he's relearning the shape and texture, and just when you've settled into a nice rhythm and your hips are rolling into his with timed eagerness, his teeth clamp down. A cry bursts from your lips; he soothes the sting with a rapid tongue, still tugging at the nipple. He tortures the other with his fingers, pulling and twisting, knowing that it's making you wet, very wet, and driving you wild. He latches on to the other nipple, sucking hard, gnawing, grunting when you pull his hair and claw the back of his neck. Beneath your other hand, his shoulders bunch as he shifts down once more, his mouth reacquainted with soft swell of your belly, his tongue gently tracing the edge of your navel. The fluttering pulse in your belly and thighs hammers to a new speed and your hips jerk up into him again, a whimper on your tongue.

The scrap of satin between your legs is soaked through with a powerful cocktail of rain and lust. Connor traces his tongue down the fabric, sucking the taste of you off of the smoothness, rolling it over his tongue, muttering about your sweet taste, about how he could eat you for hours on end and still come back for more. He finds your clit through the fancy cloth and presses at it with his tongue, pulls at it with his lips, and before you know it, you're coming, swift and sweet, your gasps of 'more' mingling with the downpour.

"Aye, more," he agrees, coming up for a much needed breath. His lips land flush on yours, another sweet and blood-rushing kiss. His hands land on your twisting hips, snagging the sides of your panties, and as you flip his belt open and unhook his suit pants, you feel the quick tug of his hands and the telltale rip-and-snap of sixty five dollars being torn from your body.

"Conn," you gasp, a curse close behind, and he kisses you once more as his palm cups you firmly, his fingertips stroking. Your eyes squeeze shut; any admonishing words for him shrivel up and die as he sinks his middle finger snugly inside with one stroke. You choke on his name; he pulls back and returns two fold, ring and middle fingers vying for a spot in the tight, wet heat of your cunt.

"Fuck, yer soaked," he moans, and you know he's not talking about the rain. His fingers plunge again, and then again, in a slow, steep grind. Settling on his knees, he takes one of your hands and guides it back to his zipper. "Touch me," he begs, the words dying fast as you slide the metal teeth down without hesitation and grip him firmly. This is what you love: knowing that you've done this to him, that you've pushed him to this point, to where he's hard and hot and begging for you to do something about it. His head rolls back against his shoulders, and you watch the rain roll over his upturned features, trailing down his throat and torso, running over the ridges of hard muscle and lean, golden flesh. Your grip tightens and twists, his hips arching into your touch. "Yeah, just like dat," he murmurs. He bends and kisses you once more, fingers still stroking deep inside, tongue sweeping in a delicious mimicry.

With a hiss, he breaks away, and shoves your hand aside. When your knees fall open for him, the rains splashes on scorching flesh and you writhe as he pulls his fingers away. You whine. It's not something you're proud of, but at this point, you don't really care. Connor barely hides his smirk, loving you like this, and he pushes your thighs closed and manages to shimmy his hips so that his slacks fall just enough. Hauling your ass to his thighs he hooks an arm around your legs, lifting your knees to his shoulder, and takes hold of his cock with his other hand.

With his eyes on yours, he presses inside, just enough that it's tight and thick, and his lips purse around a pleasured whine that you echo at another decibel. He hisses sharply, pulling back out, and then pushes inside again, deeper this time, but still slow and full, and clutch at his thighs and release a choppy moan. This is timed pleasure and he takes it, sinking in, pulling out, sinking back an inch further. When he finally bottoms out he pauses, shifting his hips enough to make you arch up off of the chaise. He rises with you, cock brushing against that one spot that makes you see stars, and when you flutter around him he groans, a long, low, lusty sound that makes you giddy with pleasure.

He lets your legs go, takes his hands and hooks them around his hips, and leans down to kiss you again. He gives an experimental thrust, squeezing the breath out of you, and when he draws his hips back, his tongue glides against your throat. He plunges deep on the next stroke, hauling your hips up to meet him, and it cuts off your moan. "Oh, _fuck_, Connor, yes," you pant, churning your hips in a desperate attempt for more friction.

"Thought you wanted slow," he murmurs, holding you steady for a heartbeat.

You shake your head negatively. "No," you gasp. "No, no, fast, oh, please, Connor, _please_."

He pauses and shifts his hips back, drawing himself and a long groan from you. "All right," he nods, taking your hands and pulling you upright. He is amused by your bewildered, desperate expression, and he leans back where you had previously sprawled, pulling you with him and arranging him in your lap. Sliding a hand down your slick spine, he tilts your hips forward and positions his cock beneath you before pulling you down. He leans up slightly, his face tight with pleasure. "You drive," he manages to growl.

Your eyelids flutter as he lets you take over. You find a pace that you can feel deeply, that makes him screw up his face and mutter in all five languages. He hisses and moans, pants and pleads, his fingers hooking into the straps of the garter belt and tugging with every swing of your hips. He admits that you're killing him, that he wants to come, and very badly wants you to join him.

"Keep up," you pant, rocking your hips harder. You're going for broke and he presses his hand hard against your lower belly, grinding you back into the wide head of his cock and making your eyes cross.

Through clenched teeth he curses you, thrashes his head, eyes wild, skin wet. "Thassit, fuckin' _ride_ me, lass," he utters, gripping your hips hard and jerking against you.

Your hands plant on his chest, clutching, allowing you to arch back and down onto him for several hard, deep digs, and he's so far in you it jolts, almost painfully. You can hear yourself sighing and moaning and you're sure that if there was no rain, you'd wake up the entire neighbourhood. As it is, the deluge has not stopped, and only makes things slicker.

Connor's fingers clench tightly again, and he warns that he's going to come soon. His hands glide to your breasts, tugging at your nipples, knowing the extra jolt of pleasure will be enough to set you off. "Touch yerself," he nods, and you obey, sliding hot fingertips up and down against your hard, aching clit and rocking deeply against him.

"Conn," you gasp, swallowing another breath.

"Tell me," he begs hotly.

You keen. It's on your shoulders. It's on your heels. It's in your belly, in fire and electric shocks, in cold and hot flashes. You shudder and shake and nod frantically. "I'm coming," you gasp.

"Yes," he growls.

"Oh, _fuck_, Connor!" you yelp sharp and hard.

"Ah, fuck, thassit, lass!" he cries out beneath you.

"Come, Connor, come in me now," you demand, and as your ears ring and your heart hammers and your vision blurs and goes white, limbs melt and freeze and shake, Connor roars, a long vowel sound, choppy, bursting, and comes hard and hot and long.

* * *

"What are ya gonna do wit' it?" he murmurs hours later in the dark of your bedroom.

The rain hasn't let up and it patters against the windows and sends streaking, waving light against the white of your walls. In the corner: the rolled canvas displaying your nudity. Connor had made his way back down to the gallery, you in tow wearing nothing but your stockings and his suit jacket, and when the two of you sloshed in, voices stilled and all eyes stared.

Your client – your _former_ client – scowled and then stormed over, demanding what the hell you were doing. Connor smirked and tossed a damp wad of cash at the man and nodded to the picture. "M'buyin dat," he said, not batting an eye. "Dere's more dan enough ta cover it." When the curator approached him and cautiously asked for the delivery address, the gleam in Connor's eye told him that he'd be taking the picture with him _now_. Two assistants scrambled to procure a ladder while you raided the bar for two more bottles of shitty champagne, and then two of you exited. Walking through the rain, the canvas was rolled and tucked under Connor's arm while you passed one of the champagne bottles back and forth.

"It's worth three thousand dollars," you point out from where you've sprawled on his chest. You pick your head up and look at him, fingertips smoothing over his golden skin.

He snorts and captures your wandering fingers, pressing them to his lips. "Aye, an' yer priceless," he replies. "Money doesn't factor in dis equation. Wasn't about to let anyone else see ya like dat – vulnerable, trusting, naked…" he trails off as he drops your hand and walks his fingers down your spine. He gives you those bedroom eyes, and it works to set a stirring between your hips. "I want dat all ta meself," he whispers. "Ask Murph," he murmurs against your lips. "I've never liked ta share. Always been the selfish twin."

You give him your best impression of his smirk and sit up in his lap, reaching to the side of the bed and snagging the second bottle of champagne. "Didn't you know that it's always the youngest sibling who's selfish and self-serving?" You giggle at the expression of mock indignant rage. Quickly, he sits up, upsetting your perch and sending you sprawling back to the mattress. He crawls over you quickly, a growl behind his lips. "Take it back, lass," he whispers darkly, his smile curving wickedly.

"Never," you shake your head, knowing that if there is any other way to get Connor riled up, it's to call him the baby of the two brothers.

With a twist of his hips he's pressed against your thigh and you gasp a little with his sudden recovery. You swallow your groan because if he hears it, he'll be victorious, and instead you stare up at him defiantly. "I'll make ya eat yer words," he says, already catching your knee and pulling it up to his hip.

When he presses inside of warm, pleasantly pained flesh, you arch your back and purr at the ceiling, clutching the hair at the back of his neck. "Promise?"

* * *

_fin_


End file.
